Writings Of The Lost Son
by Consistently Inconsistant
Summary: Vlad receives a letter from the son he never knew he had, written just before the boy killed himself. Unable to process his grief, Vlad goes to great lengths to investigate every aspect of his son's former life. Through the pain and the process of looking into a child the world forgot, however, he begins to change. Sometimes, it takes a catastrophe to save a wayward spirit.
1. Dear Vlad

**AN:** So I was reading a discussion on LiveJournal where people were debating the 'long lost child' plotline you see in so many fandoms. Another discussion involved suicide in fanfic. Somehow my brain meshed the two concepts into this disturbing piece. **Trigger warnings for this include:** death, mentions of self injury, implied non-con and basically general adult themes. I seriously considered bumping it up to M before I edited it down.

I'm fairly sure this will bomb. I can't imagine anyone staying after the first chapter. Still, reviews are welcome if you have them for this... thing.

* * *

Dear Vladimir Masters,

My name is Andrew Upton. You don't know me. I was born in Newark, New Jersey, where I lived with my mother. You _do_ know her. You screwed her over figuratively and literally. I'm sure you thought no one would realize how convenient it was for you to have an 'accident' with some paranormal tech the day she told you she was pregnant. Suzanne Kalista Upton wasn't a blip on your radar. You ran off to get rich and she had nowhere to run to when she had me.

She's dead now. I'm not giving you details. You don't deserve them. You don't even deserve this. This is not a love letter where I reach out to my estranged father and you come get me and everything is puppies and rainbows. One thing I learned in the foster care system is there are no puppies and rainbows. The puppies are vicious attack dogs and the rainbows are there to distract you as another knife's put in your back. You're a corporate bloodsucker. You know a lot about backstabbing. I don't have to explain to you just how much of it goes on at this level. Everyone wants a piece of everyone, everywhere.

I've been bounced between twenty five foster homes and group homes. A lot of bad things happened to me. I'm not listing those because you're not my friend and you're nothing that could ever be called a father. A father has a right to know what's been done to his son. But you don't have a son. And I never had anyone. I've been alone in the world since I was six years old. My entire life was spent watching my back, paranoid but not paranoid enough, afraid but always accepting it was all going to happen again, and picking up the pieces so many times it just wasn't worth it anymore.

By the time you read this, I will be dead.

God, I've loved that line ever since I was seven and I first heard it. I don't even remember where I heard it. I just remember staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling of the house and thinking it was exactly my kind of thing. A way to get the last word in without getting punched or worse for it. In fact, I've been planning this for a while. I always kept tabs on you, on where you were, and I weighed out the options. I wanted to do what would hurt you more. I know the public realizing you had a piece of shit for a son would ruin your ego. But in the end, I'm just not that vindictive. Keep your public reputation. Stay golden. Let everybody think you're a great guy.

I'm doing this for me. I'm writing this so you don't get any ideas I just missed you so huggy wuggy much I couldn't go on. How could I ever miss something I never had? I don't miss anything. I long for things, standing outside, always looking in on the things I will never have. The things I want, your wealth couldn't buy. I want to come home and talk about how my day was, I want to stay somewhere long enough I can think about how different it used to be, I want to know someone would miss me when I'm gone. These are things you could never correct. These are the reasons why I'm just going to go to sleep now. And this way you'll know, so if you _were_ worried I'd show up and try and milk you for money, you can relax. I know it costs the government a lot to take care of kids with no families. This way there's a little bit more to go around.

Don't get any horrible mental images. It's not like you see in the movies. I'm not going to leave trails of red behind me or do anything involving any kind of blade. No, I did that kind of thing to relax, ever since I was twelve. Never deep enough I had to go to the hospital, just enough to unwind. It took all the anger and hate out of me. It was beautiful. Even though life was always bad, I never did drugs, I didn't drink, I didn't start fights. I learned a way to get rid of all the pain. That helped me out a lot. When you only have a record of getting beat up, not beating other people up, you don't get in nearly as much trouble. It's how I survived all these years in this system. If I hurt myself, they couldn't hurt me. And if you only cut your legs, none of the foster parents or social workers catch on and they don't have to worry. That's always been a relief for me. They have so much on their plates. They don't need to worry about a hopeless case like me.

I wish I could say I was some ghetto success story. I don't drink or do drugs or smoke or sleep with anything that moves. I'm not in a gang and I don't own a weapon. So I guess I'm not a failure. I'm just not a success. I barely scrape by in school and I've lost every fight I've ever been in. Sometimes I didn't even put up a fight. I've let people use and abuse me. I used to think it was better than dying. As long as I was alive, it didn't matter how many people had broken me. I thought I was being strong. I'd get my grades up one day, become a linguist and run off to somewhere far away, some country with only small towns like Greenland or Mongolia or the Faroe Islands and leave all this behind me. I'd make a new identity for myself, a new me. Whenever I wanted to die, I'd dream about my fake futures.

The truth is, though, I'm failing everything this semester. As of this writing I've also spent three weeks this night forced into things against my will that no amount of showering will ever wash away. I could run to the farthest depths of Mongolia or the furthest northern parts of Greenland and these memories, all the times I've screamed for people to stop and they kept going, they would never leave me. And I know it's all just going to keep happening. No one cares about what people do to strays like me. I'm only fourteen. I can't take another four years of this. I can't take another night of this. Everything hurts too much. I want things to stop hurting. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't take it. I'm weak. I'm broken. I'm sorry. You must be so disappointed in me. I hope you're not. I hope that you can be happy about this, that you don't have to worry about some by-product of a one night stand showing up on your doorstep all soap opera style and destroying your happiness.

I don't want to leave a big hassle for everyone to deal with when I'm gone. I don't want them to be traumatized. Not the adults here - I mean the kids. The little ones might still have a chance to become something, someone, some day. Seeing my dead body would only ruin them. That's why I'm going to pack my stuff in a duffel bag, go to school, and cut school to the park. I've experimented with sleeping pills. No matter the quantity, it enters the bloodstream and begins to affect your motor skills at the same time. It's dependent on how much you've had to eat. Don't eat, and you can time it down to the minute. So I'm going to sit in the park clearing until that time is past, and then go lay down by the walking trail. The trail opens up at nine and school starts at eight. I'll be gone and only one person will have to see me like that. I'm hoping that way it won't end up scarring everyone I lived with. It's odd, but no matter how much hell everyone puts me through, I don't want to deal it back. I don't have it in me. Maybe the adults here are right when they say I'm not a person. People don't act like this. Sorry. I'm getting off topic again. I meant for this to be short and blunt so it wouldn't hurt you, not all emotional and rambly.

So anyway, just know it was peaceful. I just went to sleep. All your money is safe, and so is your secret. Other than this letter, nothing exists to tie you to me. Nobody ever has to know we're related. I know my Mom tried to get a hold of you when she was still around. I'm sure you were scared I would ruin your publicity. This way, though, you have one less thing to worry about. It's all over. You'll be happy to know that I already gave away most of what little I had to other people. There's nothing left to collect, no skeletons in the closet. I never did anything illegal other than stealing the sleeping pills. I'd have paid for them, but I never had anywhere near the money for it. I wonder if you could slip the pharmacy here in Charleston, West Virginia about fifty bucks? I may have gotten too much. I'm a very thorough person. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right.

I'm sure you don't care. You probably read as far as me being dead and threw this away. But that's okay. You never wanted to be involved. These details are all things you didn't ask for and don't want. I think maybe writing this was more for me. So I could vent some anger at you that cutting just didn't get out of me. Talking to you is like talking to God - I'm sure neither of you are listening, but it takes some of the edge off of things. I don't hate you or God, though. You seem like a nice guy on the TV. I didn't mean what I said about you not deserving details. You do. I just don't want to hurt you anymore than I already did. I'm the one who ruined everything. Without me dragging her down my Mom could've had an amazing career and she'd be alive right now. She wouldn't have been in a dangerous city like Newark if it weren't for me.

But I won't drag you down, too. People would turn you and I into a media circus. The billionaire and his bastard son – a cover story for every gossip rag in the country. And I don't want to do that to you. I don't even want to tell you what happened to Mom because I know it would hurt you. I tell myself you loved her, even if you probably didn't. I try to believe you're a good man. Some part of me wants to hate you but I have to ignore it; I know the difference between me being bitter and someone really being evil. I don't think you're evil. That's why I'm taking myself out of the picture before I can do any damage to you. This way no one will hurt me or you. I know you'll understand. Mom always said you were the smartest man she ever knew. I wish I could have met you.

I love you, Dad.

Signed,

Andrew William Upton


	2. Police Report

**AN:** I am probably going to jump the shark here, and maybe this idea was better left as a one shot like it was originally thought up in my head, but several people seem to be interested in seeing more and I have some idea of how I want the plot to go, so here's my best shot. I was originally going to make this part Vlad musings and more Andrew writings in keeping with the title, but that would make this chapter ungodly long. The Andrew writings I have will probably make up a bigger part of chapter three.

All feedback, criticisms, ideas, thoughts, advice and contributions are appreciated and welcome.

* * *

Vlad held the letter in his hands, rereading it for the hundredth time.

Andrew had excellent penmanship. Other than the tear stains, the ink hadn't smeared a bit. He'd written in dark green ink, and drawn a rather intricate border on the pages with gel pens. Whatever his grades had been, he had been artistic, able to create neverending loops and knots that encompassed the edges of the pages like intricate beadwork would a tapestry. It was similar to the style used on Celtic artwork. Andrew did not make errors, did not have to scribble a single word out. This had all been _planned_, and that word sat like a stone in Vlad's stomach, weighing him down, paining him with all the implications it entailed. Every word burned in his mind.

Andrew had also been very thorough. How he got the address to Vlad's private PO box, the man would never know. It was the only way to do it and have this matter stay private, but was just so labor intensive. How had he done it? How could he call himself stupid when he'd managed that? How could he not see that he was clever, inventive, determined? He was a good kid. That was what burned at Vlad the most. He was his father's son, tricky and smart and not totally honest. He wasn't so strange that Vlad could distance himself from this. Instead he was drawn in like a fire, burned by the hundreds of thousands of _what ifs_ and _whys_ that remained unanswered.

Why had he decided to die when he could have had such a shining future? Vlad would have taken him in, he would have loved to; he had thought Suzanne was jumping to conclusions. She hadn't taken a pregnancy test at that point. He'd thought it had to have been nerves; why didn't he ever think to check up on her? She had never contacted him afterwards. Why? There were so many questions his head was spinning, and he could barely keep it together. He was a man of action, and he would look into this. He wouldn't just let this go. He couldn't. This was more important than any business meetings he had this week. He was already rich enough to buy everything short of the Packers; what did a brief vacation do, set him back a few thousand dollars?

Andrew was gone, almost certainly dead. The missing ad in the paper was short, cold and unemotional. More important was the grainy black and white picture the newspaper from that area provided. Dark hair, angular features, a face devoid of joy. He looked like Vlad had as a child, albeit with bigger, softer eyes and a smaller nose, and full eyelashes inherited from his mother. He wasn't stunning, but he was good looking in his own way. He would have grown into a very handsome man if he'd had the chance to. Maybe Vlad's opinion was biased by the fact this was his only child. Maybe he was biased because he hadn't been able to sleep since he'd read Andrew's letter. He'd felt like he could barely breathe, barely think. Fourteen was too young. Vlad was in too much shock to cry. He stared at the picture as his private jet made a beeline for Charleston, West Virginia.

Suzanne had been a brilliant Physics major with a singular talent for cheering him up. He could have been happy with her. He could have, if he had thought of it. If he had realized she was serious and it wasn't a false alarm, if he'd stayed with her, he could have lived happily with the knowledge there was someone out there who thought the world of him. But he had thought she was just another person abandoning him after the accident, and she had thought it was his way of telling her loud and clear he didn't want this baby. Their miscommunication had cost them everything.

It had cost them their son.

Twenty five foster homes, group homes, in eight years. Andrew had been bounced around, thrown around, and he never knew that his father would have scooped him up and whisked him away to the happy ending the boy dismissed as a fairy tale. He never knew he would have been loved and spoiled. All he knew was change, never staying in one place for longer than four months, slowly losing more and more of himself. Like a stone beaten by the sea, he'd been worn down to a duffel bag of possessions and a load of emotional baggage too heavy to carry. His words ran through Vlad's head over and over again. There were implications there, words like 'used and abused' that made his heart race and his blood boil. His child had been hurt. Badly. Repeatedly. He had gotten so used to it that it was just casually stated, like it was normal. This was his _world_. That was life.

Maybe it was for the best Danni had run away and his clone attempts had otherwise failed. He couldn't even save a human child, what made him think he could have handled a half ghost? He hadn't even thought about Suzanne in years. Vlad hadn't even been able to slip her money for a better place to live. It was _his_ fault she was dead, not Andrew's. Andrew hadn't asked to be born. He hadn't even been the deciding factor in where she lived. She'd had family in Newark – which begged the question of why they'd just dropped custody of the child off to the state so casually, so coldly. Vlad rarely let his eyes glow with anger, but he could feel the urge to do so rising up inside him at the thought of the six year old being told his grandparents didn't want him.

He had a lot of people he needed to talk to. First thing first, however, was finding out how Suzanne Upton had died. He stared at the police file he'd managed to acquire from the Newark PD after several phone calls and some generous application of money. He was almost too scared to open it. But if he wanted to investigate this, if he wanted to know about these people instead of letting them be lost in the crowd of faces he'd encountered in his lifetime, he needed to read the whole thing, detail by painful detail. He could either run away from her a second time, or he could take the plunge. And the plane was already halfway to Charleston.

He opened the folder, and began to read it, feeling cold in a way that had nothing to do with the autumn morning. There were the typical details – date, officers' names, things he didn't care about. Homicide, well, obviously, perpetrator never caught (Vlad made a note to launch some ads to smear the name of the police chief sometime, just for that), called in by… by Andrew, via 911. A transcript of the call was laid out on paper.

_This is 911. What is your emergency?_

_My – my – my Mom, he's got my Mom!_ The transcript noted there was screaming in the background. Vlad flinched.

_Who has your Mom? Calm down and give me your address._

_349 Hambrick Road, the top of the hill, the – the red house – _

There had been screaming. Andrew had dropped the phone. A man's voice was noted to have been shouting something unintelligible to the emergency responder, and there had been noise, like someone breaking through a door. After more shouting, there was a minute and a half of silence before an officer had arrived on the scene. The woman's screams had stopped by then.

_We've got a dead body here. Female, looks around thirty years old, multiple stab wounds to the chest and torso. No sign of the child. Over._

_Are there any other exits in the house?_

_Not that I can see – wait, I think I've got this. It looks like there's a basement door here. Hey, kid? Kid? I'm with the police. My name's Officer Glass. Please unlock the door. It's okay._

Vlad had to set the file down. He pictured the scene all too vividly; a scared six year old dropping the phone and scrambling for a door in the darkness, hoping he wouldn't die, hearing his mother's screams taper off, huddled alone too afraid to make a sound. He would've been all too aware of what his mother's silence meant. In that moment all innocence Andrew could have had was shattered. After all, if he was calling it in he'd seen at least the initial stabbing at the very least, seen his mother's blue eyes go wide in shock as a knife was plunged through her, run through the tiny house for the phone praying somehow the police would magically appear and save them. The gray haired man reached for the file again-

_MOM! MOM! No no no no no!_

_Kid, calm down!_

Andrew had proceeded to start slamming his fists against his head.

_What are you doing? Stop that!_

_Th-this is a-a dream, I – I just n-need to w-wake up, p-please let me wake u-up, please, please…_

Vlad set the file down again and looked out the window to get the mental images out of his head. He couldn't. He felt helpless, pathetic, things he hadn't felt this intensely in years. He hadn't even known and his son had sat there staring at Suzanne's lifeless body begging for it to not be real. He couldn't take it being real. And yet it was, and it remained that way, no matter how hard he tried to wake up. The half ghost found himself wanting to rip apart the man who had dared do this to a single mother and her child. He'd possessed people, sure, but he'd never left them without enough money to survive, and he'd never murdered them. If he were ever put in the position to fight someone where their child could see it he'd decline. There were some lines one simply did not cross.

He had never found himself unable to even voice the thoughts he was having. The things he pictured doing right then changed that. If he had been there, if he ever got a clue who this man was, if, if, if. The word if was beginning to hurt like a physical blow and all he could do about it was clench his fists and try to breathe. He could have had a family. He could have been a decent husband, he'd have tried, for one of only two women alive who ever understood him, for a little boy who needed the security. If he'd only had the chance…

The report said nothing had been taken. There was no monetary gain. It was just violence for the sake of violence. It didn't make any sense. Suzanne was an optimistic believer in the goodness of the world, someone who had never said a mean thing that Vlad could recall. She would rather be insulted and walk away than start a fight. How could she have made an enemy who would do this? But surely it couldn't be random. People didn't just wake up, walk over to a random house and stab a woman fourteen times without a reason. This was unreal. There had to be more these idiotic police officers had missed. This was too perfect a crime; no evidence of a forced entry, nothing taken? It had to be someone she knew, and therefore it was solvable. Particularly for a man of Vlad's talents and money.

By the time the plane landed he'd pulled himself together enough to take the duffel bag of items Andrew had left behind from the group home. He had no qualms about making it clear he was the boy's father; he'd put in for a DNA test, calmly answered several of the immediate gossipy press calls on the matter and was, to quote his personal assistant, out for blood if anyone tried to stop him. He glanced over at his assistant when she placed a hand on his shoulder. The comfort was almost painful. He didn't deserve it.

"They haven't found any bodies yet. He's out there, sir," she said, her voice encouraging, her eyes gazing into his. The exact color of moldavite gems, her eyes held the sympathy of a woman who didn't understand he deserved this. He had brought this on himself. "We'll find him."

"…God, I hope so," he managed to squeeze out, an unprofessional response in a voice weaker than any he knew he possessed. He looked at the duffel bag in his hands, then cleared his throat. "Start making calls, Rita. I need a hotel room, a meeting with a police officer of this city and the address of this pitiful excuse of a group home, immediately. I'll be in the plane until you make the arrangements."

"Right," Rita nodded, pulling out her cell phone. He needed room to grieve. Or, if she was right and the lack of bodies in the park was worth something, he needed room to take it all in.

Either way, she could swear she saw tears in his eyes before he moved just out of sight.


	3. Some Scraps

_It's September again._

_My birthday went well, which for me means nobody remembered the first was my birthday at all. I found some unguarded sidewalk chalk and stole some nail polish off a girl at school. It doesn't matter that I can't use either of them. The important thing is that I'm not empty handed. Last time one of the older boys wanted something from me I was and he nearly got into my duffel bag. I had to clutch my knee, drop to the floor and scream to keep what little I have that I actually like to myself. It worked like a charm, though. That means I'll probably pay for it in some not so subtle way later. But if I worried about the future I'd shoot myself before breakfast._

_Ran into Nicole again. I hate that. She's so much brighter and better than the rest of us. If I were going to adopt someone I'd go for her. Of all the people I've tried to make friends with, she's the only one who's never screwed me over. She makes me feel bad, though. For not fighting back. She says I'm losing myself, I'm not who I used to be. I tried to say it wasn't that bad, but I could see it in her eyes she didn't believe me. She asked me when the last time I drew was. I don't remember._

_She's in some place across the city. We see each other for school, and that's it. I tried to keep other people from knowing I knew her, but of course Jake found out. For the price of suffering through heckling every lunch period, getting mocked at the house and occasionally thrown around when there's no better targets, I can have a friend for a bit._

_She'll go. They always do. Another transfer, a new place, and then things return to normal for me. Her place feeds her for breakfast. Mine gives us a couple of bucks and sends us off to school. Mine will always be gone; it's just a question of who corners me first, Jake or Justin. Watching one tear the other apart over two dollars is fun, but usually they just give up and sulk off in the other direction. I'm saving up my money for a Mongolian phrasebook. How much money will it take to get to Mongolia? I'm not sure. I just want to be able to speak well enough they'll let me stay. I could go out of the city, into the countryside steppe there. I would work for a place to sleep. I'd be content with having my own horse and plot of land some day. Peace, quiet, a safe place to set my head down, nobody telling me how to live every minute of my life – that's the life for me._

_Greenland is closer, but I can't find any books on the language. Would they let me work fishing or hunting or doing whatever needed to be done as I picked the words up? I could do that. I already do work I hate here, cleaning up the latest house only to have either Jake, Justin or the littler kids make a mess. I don't mind cleaning. Work time is time away from all of them. That means more time where I can think about my escape. All I have to do is make it through high school, and then I'll be free._

_It'll be alright._

* * *

The writing was small enough to be praiseworthy, and Vlad read it over with a sort of choked feeling in his chest.

If Andrew was alive, a trip to Mongolia wouldn't cost that much for the billionaire, would it? He could hire him his own private Mongolian tutor, go with him to Greenland, anything. Vlad could buy him libraries worth of books on the subjects, they could go to Ulanbataar and Nuuk and eat bozhl and drink Greenlandic coffee. He could use all his legal power to make the lives of this Jake and his cohort Justin a living nightmare. He could find this Nicole; get her a better situation, maybe an adoption somehow, if Andrew was still alive. He had that kind of money. He spent it on an opulent mansion, but, as he was realizing rapidly, he could have been using it to change people's lives, pull them back from the brink of hopelessness, give them the world. He would give Andrew the world if…

If. If he wasn't already dead in some ravine somewhere, passed out on some city street, abducted by degenerates, then Vlad could make everything right. If he was dead, all this was worth was a wish on a star. He had to reread the paragraph on money again twice for it to sink in. So that was why his son had chosen two random countries all the way across the world from each other. They were remote and barely populated, places where he would have to work hard but where he could eventually live alone, without any of the people who'd made his life so hard. He wanted to get away from humanity itself, at all costs. People were the enemy. Peace equaled an escape from people.

He put the piece of paper aside and picked up a drawing. Nothing but a boy shot through the head, the black from the burst forming what appeared to be writing of some kind, although not in a language Vlad knew. The peaceful smile on the boy's face was disturbing enough, as was the scribbling on the back:_ can't keep sleeping in closets anymore, they know. Need new hiding place here. Under the porch might be viable._ Vlad imagined his son curled up in what little space a closet provided, suffocating on the smell of shoes and coats, trying desperately not to have to deal with anyone else again. Then he pictured his son laying in the dirt under a porch, sweltering in the West Virginia heat but knowing worse things would come if he came out from his hiding place.

Vlad didn't want to focus on that, so he picked up another paper. This one was torn in half.

* * *

_-days now. I haven't been able to sleep properly all week. When I do it's with the book tucked under my shirt, right next to my chest. They all know I saved up money and those that don't think I stole it. So naturally I'm either fodder for gang recruitment or just another jerk that needs to be taught his place. Either way, I just try to memorize as much as I can before it's taken from me and I have to give it up. If I commit everything to memory and keep it fresh then when I get to Mongolia I won't be totally lost. I'll just have to work my way up the ladder. Then these days will all be behind me._

* * *

More confirmation of what he already knew, that this system was plagued with bullies and Andrew was hanging on to his fantasy of Mongolia at that point. But in his letter, he'd said he'd given up, that nowhere in Greenland or Mongolia was far enough away to wipe out memories. He had a horrible, stomach churning feeling he knew what his son was referring to, the way it was worded leaving the implications hanging without going into details. What he needed now were names, people who had done it. More specifically, he needed to know who, exactly, had made Andrew drop even this little thread of hope. He had to have some reason to give up his escapist fantasy, the dream he'd been nursing for what appeared to be some time.

Somewhere in the binders of papers there was an answer, just waiting for him to pick it up and put it together. He found a piece of heavily decorated paper and began to read it, noting the corner work and Celtic knot frame was similar to the work done on the letter Vlad had received. Every scrap so far had used different writing implements of varying colors. This one was a violent red, but what was on it was not what Vlad expected at all.

* * *

_One of the little ones has gotten attached to me._

_Her name is Tondra. She's small and black, darker skinned than Nicole, with eyes that are navy blue. Apparently the people at the last place she was at threw her back into the system for raising too much of a stink after – well, after what always happens to unguarded girls happened to her. She didn't want anything to do with anyone here, so she hid in a closet. I was there, too when she entered. We talked. About what had happened to both of us, about getting out of here one day, and about a little bit of everything. Eventually I emerged for dinner. She was scared of me since I was both male and bigger than her, but that faded when I came back to her closet with dinner._

_She lets me put her hair into puffball pigtails and read to her about Mongolia. When we're stuck with chores, she takes up cleaning with me, and sings. She's always singing. One day she wants to be a star. She promises to come to Mongolia some day and see me. Alex cornered me, asked me why I'm filling her head with nonsense. He says it's not healthy to cling to dreams like that and ignore the real world. I told him she's six, she can believe whatever she wants. He asked me what my excuse was._

_Tondra doesn't like Alex much. I had to explain that Alex has had what's happened to us happen to him so many times he's a very broken boy. After that many homes and relocations and that adoption that fell through when the people who wanted him found a nice baby instead, he's broken inside. He believes everyone is evil and trying to hurt one another, that all humans are programmed to attack each other on sight. He even told me the only reason I didn't 'go after' Tondra was that I was gay. That made me laugh, which resulted in a punch to the stomach. But the truth is, I could never be romantic or even physical with anyone. I hate being touched. I hate feeling someone else's hands on me. Even if Tondra were my age, I could never treat her the way Alex treats every girl he meets. I just can't picture ever wanting to do something like that._

_He hurts people. I don't want to hurt people. Not with words, not with punches, not with romance that begins and ends in the same week. It would take too much from me. And I've got nothing left to give._

_What I want is to be alone. For long enough I can forget what it feels like to be hit or kicked or pushed. Maybe, if I spent a long time away from people, I could want them near me again. Even Tondra scares me a little. She could lie to people, say I was bullying her, turn at any moment and destroy me. The only thing that stays the same is Mongolia. Even Greenland is changing. I saw it on the news. It's becoming more and more heavily populated, a center of trade, they've found oil there and stuff. At least Mongolia is big enough they'll never ruin all of it. There will always be somewhere I can go there where no one can find me._

_It's a big country. I know it'll stay that way no matter what pops up there._

* * *

Vlad placed the paper down and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He wasn't sure why he did that; nervous habit, maybe. Tired habit, more accurately, but that was getting technical and he didn't have time for that right now. He needed to find clues on where his son would be right now. The words 'his son' slammed into him again and again, like an ocean wave, relentless and fierce. He had a son, this human being who was practically afraid of his own shadow and dreamed of a better life and was trying to teach himself a language. And without ever having met him, Vlad was so proud, so incredibly proud of his resilient, rebellious son who just wanted peace and quiet. At that age Vlad had been dreaming of a Nobel Prize.

Then again, at that age he hadn't had to hide books under his shirt to ensure they weren't stolen at night. As overbearing and absolutely brutal as his father Ezekiel Masters had been, his obsessions had stopped at grades, appearance and manners. He had been a nightmare to grow up under and Vlad had felt a strange void when his father had died of a heart attack brought on by stress, but he had still provided a better living environment than this… though the true nurturer in his life had always been his mother. She would've known how to instinctively right this situation, read between the lines, get out of this what he wasn't. Lillian Masters was a blue eyed wisp of a woman, a waif that had been taken out by a car accident years ago. Her death was the spark of Vlad's hatred for all authority.

Now here he was, with no family left except one possible member, whose whereabouts could only be ascertained by reading some of the most scattered, unorganized, stomach churning fantasy-driven writing he'd ever seen. This was a pitiful pile of clues by any definition. He had better odds of finding a needle in a haystack.

_So, then,_ he thought as he grabbed another piece of paper, _best begin looking for that needle._


End file.
